


children lost at sea

by kiira



Category: Glee
Genre: im so upset why did i get into glee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/kiira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“finn,” you smile sweetly. “are your parents kicking you out?” and your voice breaks messily; he doesn’t talk again.</p><p>or</p><p>goddamn it i'm writing glee fanfic</p>
            </blockquote>





	children lost at sea

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for any breaks w cannon or w/e, i've watched like 13 episodes of this show or something

_30_

You pull out the suitcase from under your bed (it still has a bra, three t-shirts and a skirt from your last visit to your grandmother’s in it; you leave them in).

When you were thirteen, you repainted your room a light pink and never really changed it (deep breath, in, out) (this really isn’t your room anymore, you realize distantly). Logically, you know you should be packing clothing, socks, underwear (logically you know these things won’t fit you in another few weeks; months; ever).

_27_

The bottom of your suitcase is lined with the entire collection of the Little House on the Prairie books. They take up an inch of space and Finn gives you a hard look (this is my life, you want to tell him, get  _out_  of here) but instead you stand to put your Cheerios uniform on top.

“Quinn, babe,” he says, and you fix him with a glare, “Babe, you’re not exactly… on… the team anymore. Maybe you would want to… save space….” and he trails off like a question.

“Finn,” you smile sweetly. “Are your parents kicking you out?” And your voice breaks messily; he doesn’t talk again.

_21_

(Daddy,  _daddy_ , I’m fifteen.)

_19_

You can hear someone moving around downstairs, like their youngest daughter isn’t trying to cram her life into one stupid suitcase.

_17_

“Um,” Finn is awkwardly standing in the corner, eyes cast down. “You might wanna take your school stuff.”

You’re not going to acknowledge him at all, but you grab your textbooks and shove them in your backpack (realize slightly strangely that you have a chemistry lab report due tomorrow and  _sorry I couldn’t finish it, sorry I was too busy becoming homeless, sorry I was learning that my parents’ love isn’t actually unconditional_  and laughter edged hysterical bubbles out of your mouth.)

_16_

You’re wasting time crying but you’re sitting on your (the) bed sobbing, because you thought they  _loved you_.

(When you were eight years old, you broke some super expensive vase of your mother’s and she gathered you up in her arms and kissed you, promised you things she could never keep because  _mommy_  how could you do this?)

Finn sits next to you, pats your arm once. “You can, um, probably stay at my place or something. My mom’s pretty cool,” and you’re always guilty about lying to him about the baby but you need somewhere to sleep. Oh god, you need somewhere to  _sleep_.

_11_

Your mom crosses outside your bedroom door, avoids looking at you.

Coward, you want to tell her again and again and again. Coward.

_9_

You fold six blouses, three skirts and seven dresses into your school backpack, watch Finn struggle to make your childhood blanket fit into the top of the suitcase (scared to leave things behind; you’re not sure what your dad’s going to do with them).

Give them to charity maybe. Burn them. You try not to cry again.

Fail.

_5_

Take a pair of scissors to your chastity ball gown and Finn watches in slight horror, slight amusement.

You’re still crying and everything’s blurred, fogged but the scissors slice through white, jagged tears in perfection.

There’s probably something symbolic here, but you’re too angry, too heartbroken to see past cutting the skirt into tatters, ripping holes larger and larger into the bodice.

Take that, mother.

That  _that_ , father.

_3_

You pick up your suitcase, he puts your backpack on his back. You grab your coat off your bed and blink tears back (you will  _not_  cry in front of them again, you will not.)

_0_

The microwave timer goes off as you start down the stairs; you feel like you’re somewhere else entirely (there are photos of you lining the staircase: Quinn in a leaf pile, Quinn at a fair, Quinn on Christmas, Quinn at a school dance, Quinn will be forever 15 on the wall) (you take two more steps, remember you’re being removed from your family, remember the photos will probably be taken down tonight).

(Breathe in, out.)

Your father, someone’s father, is standing by the door and looks at you sadly.

“It’s too bad you had to go and disappoint the family like this, Quinnie,” and opens the door.

Deep breath, bite your tongue (you’re still here, probably).

 _Daddy_ , you think.

You trip as you walk out the door.

_Daddy please._

**Author's Note:**

> [shows up 6 years late with starbucks: so how about that quinn fabray?]


End file.
